Occam's Razor
by iboneki
Summary: Carson never acknowledged putting it back. Sheppard never acknowledged finding it later on.  It just was. -Friendship. Shep whump. One shot-


_A slightly different take on a topic widely covered. _

**Spoilers: References some canon events through season 3. I made the rest up.**

* * *

ooooooo

The first time it happened, the expedition was hardly a wee baby.

So, good thing their inaugural critical medical crisis involved the stopping and re-starting of the military commander's heart.

Not the ideal follow-up to all those drills.

But Carson gave his team a lot of credit – despite the unresolved kinks and jitters, they acted as a calm, professional and cohesive unit. The Major'd be well and fine, soon enough.

Sheppard had only just regained consciousness, and was half-aware at best. The CMO hovered nearby, adjusting the pain medication while a nurse removed the rest of their patient's clothing and helped him into a gown. The injured man didn't fully react until she touched his wrists.

"Nno—" he slurred, weakly pulling away.

"We'll take care of your watch, son," Carson soothed, unknowingly misinterpreting. "You just relax."

Sheppard's eyes drooped again, and the doctor gave the now gown-clad shoulder a satisfied pat.

A bit later, when the infirmary was considerably calmer, and Carson was holed up in his office wondering how the bloody hell he could describe this in a report, another nurse came by. She held a sweaty pile of half cut-up clothing and boots in silent question.

His brow furrowed. No one ever thought to set up these other little protocols and procedures ahead of time. They probably had a special laundry facility for the infirmary, or at least storage for personal effects. But that would have to wait for next time.

"Aye, just give 'em to me," he sighed. "I'll drop 'em off in the Major's quarters."

He didn't notice the worn, black wristband til he got there.

ooooooo

There was blood everywhere, this other time.

On the gurney, on the floor, and certainly all over the Colonel.

It appeared that some band of locals hadn't taken too kindly to strangers, and Sheppard, being like himself, was last through the gate and had the bullet holes to prove it.

Carson regarded the unconscious man and straightened out a couple tangled IV lines. They had finally moved him to a bed and were deciding on the next course of action. Both wounds had exits, and didn't appear to have hit anything vital. But the CMO hadn't decided if surgery still wasn't in the Colonel's near future, anyway. The last thing he wanted was nerve damage in the lad's shoulder.

Carson stepped away from the bed, intent on consulting with another surgeon.

And that's when he saw it – lonely and forgotten down by the wheel of the discarded gurney. Someone had already taken care of the ruined clothes, it seemed. But not this.

It appeared to be unmarred until he bent down to snag it from the floor. Blood stained the faded ebony even darker; the sticky liquid seeped through entirely and colored his freshly-gloved fingers.

For a while, he'd thought it was a military thing. Another part of the uniform regulations, or a designation of rank – something. But then it occurred to him that nobody else wore one around here, even highly-ranked officers like Major Lorne.

Whatever the reason, it was important to his friend.

Carson stuck the damp band in his pocket, intending to rinse it off later.

ooooooo

One terrible time, Carson noticed it lying among mussed sheets on a vacant infirmary bed.

He didn't want to believe the Colonel had taken it off. Refused to, in fact.

But it had been hard to gauge any of the man's intentions in that state. Quite possibly, he knew, the transformation had advanced enough to render his wrist thinner, hands longer. Enough for it to fall off.

They were down to their last option. If Sheppard couldn't get what they needed from that cave…

No, Carson had quickly amended. Colonel Sheppard would. He'd never let any of them down before, and he wasn't bloody well going to start now, just because it was his own life and not one of theirs. Reassured, he grabbed the forgotten band and headed out to join the others in their last-ditch effort.

And he'd been right.

Later on, as his friend was settled back in bed and beginning his slow recovery, Carson wearily smiled at his own convictions. Glad that his trust in their military leader had eclipsed his own shame.

The Colonel would never hold him responsible, but that didn't stop the guilt from trying to suffocate his every thought.

Carson knew his own self-forgiveness would come when Sheppard was whole again. Black band and all.

ooooooo

Another time, long after that, he completely forgot.

In the past, even when things were bad, he'd always remembered.

Things were _very_ bad.

Physical injuries – broken bones, lacerations, various wounds, muscle sprains and the like – those were the same, no matter the galaxy. Pathogens, on the other hand – illnesses, bacterium, viruses – were infinitely more tricky.

It had taken them almost three days to find anything in the Ancient database that matched all his symptoms. Three days of running on adrenalin and desperation. Carson could hardly eat, and only _told_ people he was going off to sleep. There was just no damn way he'd let a man who survived the worst horrors of Pegasus succumb to some random sickness.

They had something, now. A longshot, but Carson believed they'd devised a treatment that would finally tell this Drevian Flu to bugger off.

And he was successful, it seemed – the Colonel turned a corner overnight, and was enjoying his most extended period of non-delirium thus far.

Not that looking at him would support that theory. Sweaty, limp hair was plastered to his forehead, and the five fans placed strategically around his bed hardly lessened the heat that poured off him.

He moved closer to the Colonel's bedside and gently took his aural temp. The movement must have jostled him just so, because suddenly Carson was met with two half-lidded, glazed eyes.

Sheppard's mouth moved wordlessly, and the doctor shushed him.

"Just go on back to sleep, son. You'll be right as rain in no time."

The sick pilot gave no indication of hearing him, but his eyes slipped back shut anyway.

"Dr. Beckett?"

He turned, startled, and a nurse hesitantly held out the familiar wristband.

"I'm sorry, um, I didn't want it to—"

"Aye… thanks," he whispered, more to himself, and took it from her.

It wasn't exactly relief that washed over him. More like… surety. Carson never forgot again.

ooooooo

And so this time, it really wasn't all that different.

He'd just up and dug it out of the bottom of the bin Julie had tossed yet another set of ruined clothes. She was fresh off the _Daedalus_ and didn't know better.

And was probably pretty disturbed by her frank introduction into "Neighborly Pegasus 101."

The bastards who kidnapped the Colonel thought they could learn about operating their random collection of Ancient devices by harvesting his blood. He wasn't sure how they meant to study it later, considering their method of retrieving it – slicing up the poor lad's arms and just draining em straight into glass flasks like a ruddy kegger – wasn't exactly advanced science.

But the transfusions were complete, and the risk of arrest was significantly lower. Passing the Colonel's bed, Carson noticed that Rodney, finally allowed to hold vigil, was dozing askew in a bedside chair. The CMO clenched the band in a sweaty fist, the sheer anger at those barbaric arseholes making his grip tighter.

With one last glance at his friends, he made for the door – intent on using the spare moment to slip away and take care of what he needed to… what he always did.

Walking towards the living quarters, he once again considered the deceptively important object in his hand.

Carson never acknowledged putting it back. Sheppard never acknowledged finding it later on.

It just was.

They'd been in Pegasus almost three years; it was a part of the Colonel that people noticed. And they quietly wondered what it meant. Some whispered it was a token from a dead comrade in arms. Or a tribute to those lost. Others wondered if it was some strange superstition. But the Colonel was notoriously private. They'd probably never know.

Carson used to wonder, too. But not anymore. For him, the best explanation was also the simplest: it was a symbol of life. John's life. And his importance to all of them. This, and all those times before. So long as John lived, the doctor could return it to the man – and not to those who spent the painful hours camped out at his bedside.

He'd learned that he couldn't fully protect their military commander from the endless dangers of Pegasus. Sheppard would say it was his job to protect _them_. And as they all knew, it was a terrible responsibility.

But Carson _could_ put him back together again – and so long as he was around, time after time, he'd keep doing it.

Finally reaching his destination, he paused in front of the small bedside table, placing the black wristband in its usual spot.

Afterwards, he'd keep doing this, too.

fin.

_drop a line_


End file.
